One lovely blog award, and some big confessions

lollipopsandrazorblades and lifeonaxis1 have both kindly nominated me for the One Lovely Blog award; a nice surprise on a day where I’m coughing up my lungs and getting through boxes of tissues whilst suffering with the virus from hell. Seriously, I haven’t been this unwell in a long time, and I’m cursing everybody I came into contact with last week. I’ve spent the past two days in bed, wanting to curl up and die. That the virus coincided with my little slip up is a particularly frustrating coincidence; I suspect it’ll take some time to recover.

Anyway, I owe lollipopsandrazorblades a huge thank you for my nomination; check out her blog for an amazing and humbling amount of honesty. Also, massive thanks to lifeonaxis1; she’s never been nominated for an award before and shares my reservations about award posts. Visit her blog, because she has some amazing words to say about the mental health system.

The Rules of Acceptance:

Thank the person/people who nominated you and link back to them in your post.

Share seven possibly unknown things about yourself.

Nominate fifteen or so bloggers you admire.

Contact the chosen bloggers to let them know and link back to them.


Seven things

Writing seven things about myself is always difficult; when you write with the intention of being totally honest, there’s very little to confess to. What could be shocking or surprising enough? With that in mind, I’m going to aim for the mundane.

1. I realised today that I’m entirely stuck in the late 80’s/early 90’s. Not in the trendy “LOL I’m so retro” way, but in a nostalgic way I can’t bear to let go of. Despite everything which has happened, I did have a happy childhood until depression and anxiety took over. I grew up in a semi-detached house in quite a suburban area, and although my mother was possessive, I was happy with what I had. I remember long sunny days in the garden or cul-de-sac down the road, riding my sister’s yellow scooter and visiting the family next door to play on the Master Station with my friend Daniel. I have amazing memories of running across my primary school field in a blue-and-white checked dress and lace-topped ankle socks, throwing grass and laughing.

I know most have rose-tinted memories of their childhoods, but because I was so prone to curling into myself emotionally (I’ve always been shy), I found beauty and fascination in the most simple things. Primary school was an incredibly happy time for me, and I look back on it with fondness. Not only do I look back, but I spent a lot of time thinking and, most nights, dreaming of it. I watch old TV programmes from that time and listen to the music I heard as a kid, just to recreate the feeling of pure uncomplicated living. It’s been a long time since life was uncomplicated.

Contrary to popular belief, I wasn’t a boy.

2. I love Erasure. And Bronski Beat. 80’s synth-pop and New Wave have always made me happier than anything else can, and I refuse to apologise for it. None of this is a secret or unknown, but wonderfully naff nonetheless.

3. Although I smoke cannabis for pain, I also sometimes smoke so much that I pass out; just to calm my fears. I know there’s a lot of controversy surrounding mental illness and dope, and all I can say is that I’ve known people who’ve smoked it all their lives and never become mentally ill. I’ve known others who have a diagnosed disorder such as bipolar who use it to control their manic phases. On the flipside, my ex, J, got no benefit from smoking weed; he was a stereotypical pothead and didn’t seem to understand that his bipolar got much, much worse when he smoked, and calmed down significantly when he stopped.

I wholeheartedly believe that all drugs are dangerous if used incorrectly, but if you treat the majority of them with respect, perhaps they can be a good thing. I don’t see a difference between prescribed medication and illegal drugs; after all, morphine can be diagnosed for back pain, but heroin (the same thing) is illegal. Codeine kills thousands of people a year. Addiction to prescription drugs is higher than ever, if statistics are to be believed, yet these addictions are far more accepted by society than addiction to illegal drugs.

Cannabis stops me having panic attacks. Stops them dead, with just a few tokes. Meanwhile, diazepam takes time to work and is highly addictive. Can kill you. So if I choose to use a class-B drug rather than benzo’s… is that so wrong?

But yes. Sometimes I smoke for the hell of it.  Because I like it.

4. For a long time, I lived in an imaginary world. A world were everybody was nice and respected me for my invented talents and very unlikely beauty. As a child, I often spoke these fantasies out loud and the habit carried on into my teens, leading to a child psychiatrist assuming I heard voices. I didn’t; I just confined myself in a fantasy world to the point where I believed it all. I didn’t live in the real world, but in a false reality. What happened, only happened in my head. At some point, the childish fantasies became a psychosis and that’s when everything changed in my happy little world; I invented slights and insults, and became convinced that, rather than adoring me, everyone loathed the very ground I walked on. Being bullied in secondary school pushed me further into the fake reality and only confirmed (in my addled brain) my suspicions that everyone was conspiring against me.

I foresee a blog post on this subject.

5. At the height of my bulimia, I ate food from the rubbish bin in the kitchen, shovelling damp biscuits into my mouth then throwing them up in a green plastic tub I kept especially for the purpose. I threw up in plastic zip-lock bags and hid them under my bed, surrounded by empty crisp packets and chocolate bar wrappers. I ate, then drank handfuls of water from the bathroom tap so I was as close as possible to the toilet. Sometimes, I’d vomit when I’d only eaten a small handful of carrots, terrified of the calories seeping into my veins somehow.

6. Once, I had sex with a man who was in his mid-forties, because my ex-fiancé told me he wanted me to sleep with someone else. The whole situation is somewhat convoluted so I won’t go into every single detail. My ex-fiancé and I were fighting constantly, having drifted apart sexually and emotionally, and he started getting close to another woman; Ally, who he now has two children with. I took the phrase “sleep with other people” to mean “I want to sleep with other people”, and, in stupid desperation to hold onto a decaying relationship, I hung my engagement ring on a chain around my neck, swallowed what little I had of my pride, and ended up in bed with a balding man with a constant runny nose and the inability to finish without jacking off over my chest. I remember staring at a slight damp spot on his bedroom ceiling and realising I had reached the lowest moment of my life.

7. Every morning when I wake up, I want desperately to be back in my dreams. Not because they’re happy or interesting, but because they’re so familiar. Since starting on antidepressants I’ve had incredibly lucid dreams which all take place in the same fictional town. Over the years I’ve explored houses and run down streets which are more like home to me than any place in the waking world.

It’s difficult to nominate other bloggers for this award, since I’ve already nominated so many. The following links are to blogs I read for their honest content and because, in different ways, they inspire me.
The Secret World of S / ryoko861 / May I Be… / bipolarmuse / Jacqui Talbot / NZ Cate / My Ox is a Moron / whereimstaying / Resiliant Heart / Destination Girl / Displaced Housewife / lazyhippiemama / Word Flows

I’d love to say something about each blogger because each of them deserve recognition, but I’ve already written over a thousand words… perhaps the mundane confessions weren’t all mundane.

Dream on, ’cause it’s got no meaning


For the first time in my life, I dreamed my teeth were falling out.

According to Freud, dreaming such things is a symbol for  “castration as a punishment for masturbating (castration’s complex)”,

DreamMoods says that “Another rationalization for these falling teeth dreams may be rooted in your fear of being embarrassed or making a fool of yourself in some situation. These dreams are an over-exaggeration of your worries and anxieties. Perhaps you feel that you are unprepared for the task at hand. However, you will find that your worries are unfounded in most cases. Sometimes what plays out in your mind is far worse than what is reality” read more

To be honest, I don’t believe in dream symbolism, preferring to see dreaming as a natural response by the brain to the thought process. Still, I do like to consider what my dreams might be saying. I won’t go into them, because there’s nothing more boring than reading about someone else’s dreams, but it just interested me that it’s taken me this long to have the tooth falling out one. It was creepy.

It doesn’t really help that my teeth are in a pretty poor state anyway, after years of bulimia and avoiding the dentist. I noticed a few weeks back that I’m starting to get some hefty dark stains near the gum line, which no amount of scrubbing or picking will remove. I can only assume it’s decay. Smoking like a chimney and drinking red wine doesn’t help either. I can drink ten cups of strong coffee a day without noticing. Really, I’m amazed I still have teeth. Oh, there’s a lot of pain – I can’t eat sweet things anymore without major toothache – but I’m loathe to face the dentist. I don’t even know if I still have an NHS one; I missed my last appointment for X-Rays.

It’s the cost. I know I need quite a lot of work done, and it’s not an amount of money I tend to have to hand. Especially if I’ve lost my position at the clinic and need to go private.

I sat in the garden earlier, talking to my mother. Broached the subject of S and I getting a flat, and she started her usual panic/worry rant that if I move out, I’ll lose my benefits. I don’t know what I can do to ever get her to change that view; she’s adamant that I’m destroying my future by wanting to move out, and what can I say to that?

Yes, there’s a risk that I may lose the high care component, but I can contest it. Just because my mother isn’t going to be my carer anymore, doesn’t mean someone else can’t, or that I’m not crazy anymore. I’ll still be unable to work and be disabled no matter where I live. Having my own place with S will just make life that bit more bearable. I wish she could see that.


Dear Diary – 9th/10th January, 2006

A few posts back, I wrote about finding one of my old diaries in my mother’s bedroom. Over a few days I read what I had written, and realised that although I’m still angry that she betrayed my trust after I thought we were doing well building a relationship, in a way I’m glad she kept it; I’ve learned a lot about myself through those diary entries, and I’ve decided to share some of them.

Monday 9th January, 2006.

I’ve always written a diary with the idea that maybe somebody else would read it. I think that’s why I always give up a few months in. So this diary will be written by me, for me, and nobody else.

I have been alive for 21 years and 1 month. 2006 is my 22nd year; something I’m finding hard to digest. I never thought I would see 21. It always seemed like a million years away, a goal I could never achieve, an age I didn’t want to reach. I find it hard to imagine how low I sunk through the years; the overdoses, the starving, the running away, the total disregard for myself. I never thought I’d get this far. I didn’t want to.

I’m not entirely sure how this year is going to pan out. There’s no denying it started off badly; nearly breaking up with O, the arguments, the fact that as new year arrived I was alone… I can only hope it’s not an indication that 2006 is going to be a crap year.

Met Elizabeth in town today*; we planned to see Brokeback Mountain but our cinema isn’t showing it. I can’t wait for the day I can move away from here. Sadly, since I have another two or three years left of college, it doesn’t look like it’ll be soon.

* Elizabeth and I were best friends for a number of years; we met at college and she called me her sister, said we were soulmates. Like most things in my life, I ruined the relationship (although she played a part) and we no longer speak.

Tuesday 10th January


Eventually got to bed at 2.30 last night, but didn’t get to sleep until 6. Tossed and turned for hours, opened the window, kicked the cat, put the light on, but just couldn’t sleep. Woke up half an hour later after a horrible dream and I know there’s no way I’m going to sleep after that. O is so cruel in my dreams, and I know it’s not really him but they’re so painfully realistic sometimes that I woke up fully believing he would leave me crying on the floor, that he would cut me out of his life. That’s my biggest fear.



I didn’t go into college today. Set off as normal, feeling a bit agitated after the dream, then halfway there I started shaking and feeling panicky, like I was closed in, like everyone was staring at me. Got off the bus and sat down at the bus stop and tried to call O but got no reply. Sat there for a while, getting more and more anxious, sweating, wanting to cry. Phoned college in the end and left a message; Ros will probably think I’m a crazy woman, I was stuttering and losing my train of thought. Took me forever to get hold of O and by then I was so stressed out I could only shout and rant at him for not answering earlier. Feel so guilty about it now. I know we desperetly need to talk. Otherwise, I think we might just fall apart.

Ate some soup then fell asleep when I got home. Tried speaking to O again but I can’t get the words out. I feel utterly useless today.

Love was just a word before you showed it to me

Another pointless day, although I did get up early after forcing myself to go to bed around 10pm last night. I didn’t think I would sleep, but I’ve started taking Amitriptyline regularly again and I managed to get off after half an hour. Lots of weird dreams, mostly about O; why am I dreaming about him? They’re in no way romantic or sexual, but are happening very frequently now. Sometimes I think I’m dreaming about O, and it turns out I’m actually dreaming of S… I seem to be mixing the two together in my sleep, which is odd because they’re nothing alike. I suppose my relationship with O was my first real experience of proper love, and the way I feel about S is getting confused with that. My mind can be a strange place. What I have with S… it totally eclipses my experiences with O, it’s not jealous and bitter.

Speaking of S, I’m missing him. We did speak of perhaps meeting for a drink tonight, but I’m not sure I can cope with the transport problems the strikes are inevitably going to cause. I’m feeling tired and bloated and I suspect that if I met him I’d leave early because of how I’m feeling. I’m not too bad emotionally, but physically… I’m still being hit by that metaphorical train every morning. Hopefully tomorrow will bring some answers, or at least an opening to get some answers. I’m not sure I can keep up with feeling okay when my body is raging against me. All I want is to feel okay.

Had my hair cut and dyed at the weekend; I confess I ended up attacked it with Crazy Colour a couple of weeks ago. The bright orange was fading horribly, and even though I’m fair I ended up with dark roots. I went from this:

To this:

Crazy Colour in Fire

… to this:

Fudge Paintbox in Vendetta Red with blue/black lowlights

I suppose I can never be accused of blending into a crowd.

Send me the pillow / the one that you dream on


I was thinking about things you don’t know about me. After nine months together, there’s still so much I have to tell you, and sometimes I wonder how I’ll ever manage to be honest about those parts of my life. I’m never quite sure what holds me back; fear and the worry of judgement, I suppose. Which is ridiculous, because I know you’re not the type to judge and if you were going to, you’d have done it long ago.

One thing you don’t know is that I used to spend a lot of time writing letters. It started when I hit puberty, and carried on until everything turned to shit in my twenties. I wrote my way through every little drama. Teenage angst was smoothed over by pages and pages of poorly-handwritten letters to everybody and nobody. Sometimes I would give them to the person I was writing about, but more often I ripped them up and threw them away, worried that laying myself bare on paper would somehow destroy the tiny grasp I have on the world. When I felt brave enough to share my letters, they never got the desired response. This is why I’ll never show you this. I don’t want to be disappointed by you.

You know I felt bad today. I told you, although I held back from pouring out the emotions I wanted to. I’m frightened of overwhelming you. I wasn’t lying when I told you I was scared of life never changing and the fear I’d always be ill… but I didn’t tell you just how the reality of that scares me. I told you I’d spent the entire day in bed feeling sorry for myself, but I didn’t let on just how low I became or how much I fear for my own future. I’m frightened that my dreams are dying, and that I’ll become worthless without hope to hold on to.

I used to have so many dreams. I wanted to be a zookeeper, an astronaut, a writer. I wanted to dig up dinosaurs. When the dreams became more realistic, I wanted to be a secretary or design clothing. I wanted a nice house with a garden, a car, a big kitchen and somebody just like you to come home to every day. I wanted a social life and close friends I could depend on. Eventually, I wanted a family. All normal dreams, things people achieve every day… yet as each day goes by, I feel as though those things will never happen. Even though I was ill throughout my childhood and teens, I thought that things with work out when I was older and that I’d follow the path everyone else took. Perhaps with a few deviations along the way, but that I’d eventually settle into a normal life. Really, that’s all I’ve ever wanted.

Now I look at myself and my situation, and those dreams seem so damn far away. I can’t grasp them anymore, I can hardly see them. I get frightened on public transport. I panic when something’s been moved and I can’t find it. I destroy friendships so they won’t have a chance to hurt me first. I can’t walk down the street without hurting all over. I can’t eat without the fear of calories taking me over. I can’t reach for something on a shelf without my arm muscles giving up on me. I can’t stand still for more than a few seconds without pins and needles shooting through my legs. Heck, I can hardly stand at all. Just walking to the park with you cripples me for days. I catch every virus going. I lie awake at night, hurting so much in my heart that I think I’ll explode. My past is a dead weight I carry around with me, always waiting to trip me up and bring me crashing down. I refuse to focus on my own face in a mirror. I want to hide from everything. Sometimes, I don’t want to be here at all.

Then there’s you. Loveable, adorable you. The only man who has never asked anything of me, who has never let me down or betrayed me. The one who always sends me a goodnight text, and who always remembers to kiss me before we fall asleep together. You who holds my hand in public and tells me every day that I’m beautiful. Who makes me coffee in the morning and doesn’t complain when I’m too tired to do anything but sleep. You who rubs my shoulders when I’m sore, who always notices if I have new clothes on. You, who has always been there for me.

I took a chance with you. If hearts can truly break, mine was in a thousand pieces when we met. I wanted a friend, and what I got was more than I could ever have imagined.

I feel that you deserve more than this nervous wreck of a girlfriend. I hang on because I know that I can be better than this, and because I know that, with you, I have something most women only dream of. I don’t understand why somebody so perfect for me has been given to me; I don’t think I’ll ever understand it. I don’t feel worthy of it, but I do know that you make life so much more bearable. Before you, I was waiting to die. How overdramatic does that sound? It’s true though. I was watching life pass by, waiting for a truck to hit me or for my body to finally just pack in. I was considering doing something downright crazy, just so I could be locked away, away from the pressures of having to live a normal life. You always say how I seem so capable and confident… but I’ve been wearing that mask for a long time.

I love you, so damn much. More than I ever thought I could love anyone.

I just wish I could love myself.

Picking up the pieces, and treading the borderline

I sat on this post for a while. How can I possibly respond to the comments on my last entry without bursting into tears? To know that total strangers have shown more care and concern for me than most people in real life ever have… it overwhelms me.

The exhaustion of the past few days caught up with me on Thursday. My mother noticed that my face was flushed and I was moving slowly, carefuly. As the day went on, my muscles began to curl into themselves, as though the slighest movement would shrink them and turn my limbs into petrified stumps. My mouth was dry, my eyes burned. I have no real memories of Thursday evening. I think I slept. My dreams were a jumbled mess of scary images and loud noises, those images becoming nightmares of being trapped and isolated.

I should be asleep next to S right now, but I couldn’t face leaving the house. Not even to see him; not even to spend an hour with him. The idea of going outside when I’m feeling so vulnerable is something I can’t deal with right now. I’ve drifted in and out of sleep, waking for hastily-rolled cigarettes and Pepsi. I feel physically sick, as though my stomach is filled with acid. My teeth ache. My skin hurts. I feel detatched; I can see and feel everything around me, but it’s all trapped behind a glass wall. For the past couple of days I’ve been constantly on the verge of uncontrollable sobbing, which has taken me by surprise. I stopped crying. The medication stopped me crying, yet here I am, red-eyed and puffy-cheeked, with a dam of tears swelling inside my head. It’s so unfamiliar to me now and I don’t know what to make of it.

I miss S terribly. We always spend the weekend together. Without him, something feels off, something is pulling at my gut and punching my heart. I swore I would never feel this way about any man, never again, not after all the pain I went through in my short but downright desperate search for the perfect partner. I know he would be terrified if I ever revealed the true extent of my feelings for him; what man wouldn’t be? He says he’ll visit tomorrow if I’m feeling up to it. I haven’t told him how itchy and anxious I’m feeling, I’ve purposely held back because I don’t want to put extra pressure on him.

I didn’t harm myself in the end. The urge was there, and it was fucking hard to fight it. I just can’t allow myself to slip back into those habits, not after months of being ‘clean’. I used to almost enjoy self-harm, I used to think it solved all my problems and was the perfect solution to the pressure which reguarly builds up inside my body. However, I’m now 26 and that means I’ve been harming myself for longer than I haven’t. I started when I was 10 or 11; that’s a long time to stick with a supposed method of coping with no proof that it achieves anything other than guilt and embarassment. Like any addiction though, it’s easy to slip back into that comfortable fail-safe of self-destruction.


10 Day You Challenge – seven wants

1. Happiness. Everyone wants happiness, so I’m not unique in that respect. I want to get to the point in my life where anxiety doesn’t feature and I can allow myself to be happy without questioning it or purposely breaking it apart. I’m not expecting life-long unadulterated joy, but I’d like some peace within myself.

2. My own home, be it a flat, a bedsit, or a house. I’ve grown up under a blanket of overprotectiveness, and my brief forays into living away from home have always ended in disaster because of my urgency to get away from the house I grew up in. I need more independence than living here can offer me; I’m stagnating here. A friend of mine offered S and I her house to rent when she leaves the country next year, and I dearly hope it happens. I need it to happen, I’m going crazy being surrounded by these walls and motherly constrictions. I don’t care that money will be tight, and I don’t mind paying bills, finding enough for the rent and buying my own food. I want to do these things.

3. Boots. I utterly adore knee-length boots, and will do anything to get hold of them. I order most of mine from a company called Duo; they make them to your calf size, so they always fit. They’re expensive, but worth it. I’m currently hankering after a mid-calf pair in brown leather with buckles.

4. To learn how to make my own clothes. I’m an odd body shape and size; hourglass, with big boobs and broad shoulders, big hips and a small waist. It sounds like the perfect female figure, but it really isn’t. Buying clothes is a nightmare, they simply don’t exist for women of my proportions. Jeans won’t go over my hips, but are massive on the waist. Shirts and blouses gape at the front. Bras always have too-thin straps to hold the weight. I’m never an exact size either; I’m always a 9, 11, 13, 15… not the usual 8, 10, 12, 14, 16. Most fashions look awful on me, but it’s hard to get well-tailored items which aren’t highly fashionable. I’d love to make my own patchwork skirts and dresses.

5. A dream recording machine. Seriously, how great would that be?

6. An antidepressant with no side effects. Similarly, a contraceptive pill with no side effects. I know it’s an incredibly tall order, and it’s very much in the ‘impossible dream’ section of my brain. I resisted antidepressents for a long time in my late teens and early twenties, after some very negative experiences with Effexor, Mellaril and Clomipramine.   Effexor worked brilliantly for about a year, when I was sixteen. I was a new person; energetic, less prone to panic, and slightly happier. It seemed like the miracle drug. One day I woke up and wanted to die, overdosed on two packets of them, had a seizure and ended up in hospital under constant observation. Mellaril, I partly blame for my emotional state now; I was prescribed it at the age of thirteen by a child psychiatrist I’d been seeing for self harm and instability, and straight away it changed me. I became violent and angry, I saw things, I had aural hallucinations. I cried constantly and took to harming myself on an hourly basis, just to let the badness out. I became psychotic and had to be admitted to a child psychiatric unit. I don’t hold the medication entirely to blame for that (I was on a downward spiral way before it was prescribed), but it certainly didn’t help. Clomipramine did nothing for me. My moods stayed the same. I stayed introverted and grief stricken by nothing.

Now, I’m settled on Cipralex, amitriptyline and beta blockers, but they all have side effects. I’m always slightly removed from what’s happening, I can’t quite touch the world. They make me exhausted in the mornings and unable to sleep at night. They make me itch. Cipralex affects my stomach. Still, I’m glad I gave up resisting; I’d be dead without a little chemical help.

7. I want to be special to somebody.